


Radish

by Mafief



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Holmes Has Other Plans, Holmes the Chemist, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Retirement, Story: The Adventure of the Lion's Mane, Sussex, Watson Has Plans, Watson the Gardener
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-04-04 20:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14028537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafief/pseuds/Mafief
Summary: Watson has a plan for his garden and Holmes tries to modify it.(AKA a day in the life of retired Watson and Holmes during the spring and summer time.)





	1. A Plan

  
  


The sun slowly burned away at the morning mist that covered the Sussex coastal region. The filtered light tried to peek through the windows of a white washed cottage to let the occupants know of its arrival, but there was no one there to welcome it.

Watson yawned as he followed footsteps through the fallen morning dew. He wondered how long it would take Holmes to trod down the grass between their cottage and the shed housing the beekeeping and gardening tools. Approaching the shed, Watson saw the weathered wooden door open and Holmes energetically emerge carried two pairs of forks and hoes. 

“You do realize that we are retired and can slow the pace a bit?” said Watson taking one of the sets from Holmes. 

Holmes smirked. “That was not what you said last evening.”

He promptly turned and disappeared into the shed. 

Watson sighed. “We are discussing the garden. This is an ambitious amount of work and it does not need to be completed today.”

Holmes returned triumphantly and handed Watson a pair of gardening gloves. “Perhaps, but we have risen early and it may not rain today.” 

So much for the laziest man in shoe leathers.

****

Watson watched the rich, dark earth fall in clumps from his fork. He stabbed the ground and leaned back to stretch and tried to relieve the ache in his shoulder. They were making slow progress and Watson would make even slower progress if he pushed his body too hard. 

Without discussion, Holmes had decided they should work on opposite ends and meet in the middle. It was more efficient, he claimed, to divide their efforts. Watson decided it was easier to accept that plan than argue. Returning to the present task, Watson picked up his fork and began working again.

“I think we should plant the radishes there, by this end of the bed.”

Watson almost dropped his fork and looked at Holmes. Throughout winter, there had been seed catalogues and the weekly Gardening Illustrated in stacks on his desk. By lamp light, he would flip through them, dog's-ear pages of varieties that looked promising or gardening techniques he should try. He had even sketched out his plans. Holmes had known all of his activities; why bring it up now? 

“That is not where I planned to put them,” Watson said punctuating the statement with a stab into the earth. 

Holmes kept silent and returned to his attention to the area of untilled earth. 

****

They worked a little longer until it was mutually decided that a break was in order and they returned to the house. Holmes went inside. Watson collapsed on an outside chair and wondered when he allowed himself to be slowed down this much.

Holmes returned and pressed a glass of water in Watson’s hand and stood surveying their work. The sun was suddenly covered by a cloud and a cool breeze caused Watson to shiver briefly. 

“We could have the ground prepared by tea time and begin working on the garden fence tomorrow.”

The garden fence was new this year. Watson was tired of having his vegetables, especially the radishes and lettuces, be eaten away by the native rabbit population before he even saw the fruits of his labours.

“We are in no rush; my seeds have not arrived.” Watson raised his glass and took another sip. 

“You mentioned that you wanted to add another garden bed,” said Holmes.

Watson lowered his glass and turned it around in his hands. “I did. I also mentioned that we could acquire fruit trees-”

“The radishes could go in the new bed.”

Watson sighed. “You keep to your bees and I will tend the garden,” was said with more heat than he intended.

Holmes glanced down before setting off for the garden bed.

****

Watson returned his glass because he did not want to see another one lost - Holmes was quite capable of scattering them throughout the property. Watson was proud of his garden plan. He had followed the latest in gardening advice and would grow the radishes with spinach, which were said to be good companions. Why should he move them to the end of the bed where it would go against recommendations to have radishes grow with potatoes? The article considered this rather shameful, which was likely taking the matter too far. He pondered why Holmes had taken a sudden interest in reorganizing his plans. There was no protest any other year. Why was this year different?

Watson considered this as stood by the doorway and watched Holmes smooth out the soil with a hoe. Knocking his gloves against his trousers, Watson chuckled as his realization fell into place. He slowly moved from the doorway and walked down to join Holmes. 

“Holmes, would the new bed, by chance, have a fence around it?”

Leaning on the garden hoe, Holmes met Watson’s gaze. “I wasn’t planning on building that one.”

“Do you have some other means of keeping out the rabbits?”

“Other than a fence, no.”

Watson smiled as it confirmed his theory. “Is there any other vegetable that should join the radishes?”

“Beets.”

“You want me to re-plan my garden to exclude those two vegetables?”

Holmes nodded. “What would be preferable.”

“Or I could continue with my plan and we could give any extras to Mrs. Lloyd.”

“Good heavens, no!” said Holmes looking appalled. “Each time she comes over she keeps sighing and making significant looks at you. She does not need any more encouragement.”

Watson chuckled and remembered their previous encounter with a very eager lady wishing to relieve Watson is his bachelor status. 

“The plan stays Holmes. I am rather fond of radishes, even if you are not.”

Holmes frowned and Watson picked up his gardening tool. As they worked, Watson wondered what other schemes Holmes had in store to rid his garden of radishes.


	2. Garden Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes presents Watson with a brown paper package.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the fan_flashwork prompt diary.

For most of the morning, Watson found himself alone in their shared cottage and he busied himself with manuscript drafts and his garden diary. Holmes had walks into town in the morning for an errand he would explain nothing about. From the ache in Watson’s shoulder, he knew a storm was coming and informed Holmes, but Holmes left anyway. The rain poured down and Watson knew that Holmes would be drenches on his return trip.

Through the window, Watson saw a bent over figure briskly walking up the path to the door. Holmes burst through the door with the rain on his heels trying to follow him indoors. 

“You were right about the rain, my boy.”

“I’ve just made tea, if you care for some,” Watson said as Holmes dropped a small brown package in front of him. He turned and removed his drenched cloth hat and coat, not before leaving a trail of water droplets on the floor.

Watson picked up the wrapped box and noted that it was damp despite the carrier’s best intention of keeping it dry. “What is the meaning of this, Holmes?” 

Holmes tried to supress a grin and moved to the kitchen table. Watson, eyeing his companion, started untying the string and tearing open the brown paper. They did not often give each other gifts and he was curious what was in the box. He opened it and stopped. 

"Holmes, what is this?" 

Holmes poured his tea and he said, “I would think that any respectable gardener would recognize seed packets.”

“I know they are seed packets, but why?” Watson looked at the packets, opened his mouth, closed his mouth, looked at Holmes and back to the packets before finding his voice again. “These are all radishes.”

“Yes.”

“But you dislike radishes.”

“Yes. More accurately, I have disliked all of the radish varieties that I have sampled previously."

“And these?"

"Are ones that I have not tried yet. Maybe there is a variety that is slightly better than terrible."

Holmes moved a chair next to Watson's desk and rested his tea cup by the stack of garden books. "Your garden diary. Thank you" 

Holmes flipped through the pages to the plot he designed for the garden this year. Picking up a pencil, he sketched a small square and added multiple parallel lines within. He numbered each line and drew a number on a seed packed. Watson sat in silence as he worked.

Completed with his sketch and numbering, Holmes remarked, "Do you remember the other bed I mentioned?"

"I have not given it much thought." Which was true; Watson had spent most of his time reviewing gardening books or gardening that the small bed slipped his mind.

"Of course, but I realized I could still build a fence around it with the left-over materials. This garden will be devoted to the Least Awful Radish Experiment. If you follow my plans exactly, all of the varieties should fit."

"When did you -"

"Learn how plan a garden of radishes? You aren't the only one who can read a gardening book."

Watson sighed. "Will you tend this garden bed?"

"No," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I have been reliably told that I am to keep to my bees."

"But Holmes!"

"I will prepare the bed for you and beyond that you are free to carry out my plans. You have decided to grow to radishes and grow those radishes you shall." 

With that he took his tea cup and went over to the chair by the fire to warm up leaving Watson with the plans.


	3. Revisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson revised the plans whilst Holmes was performing experiments on honey.

After the declaration of the radish experiment and warming up, Holmes disappeared upstairs to his chemistry laboratory. The middle room upstairs had been claimed in the name of chemistry experiments, leaving the two rooms at the ends of the house for bedrooms - one for Watson and another for Holmes, or so it would appear to an outsider.

Having a dedicated room for Holmes’ chemistry sets had been one of the conditions for a retirement home. The rest of the list Watson had learned about after he was introduced to the house.

“Holmes, why are were hear?” Watson had said after they had taking the short tour of the place. “You have offered me no explanation. Did a murder take place in this home?” 

“No. This place will be fine,” Holmes had said slowly. “As a place to retire to.” 

Watson had stood, arms crossed, and head down. “Yes, you will do well here, if that is your plan.”

“My plan? My plan is to retire here.” Holmes stood by Watson and lifted his face. Watson yielded and brought his face up to Holmes’ searching gaze. Holmes then adding softly, “With you, if you will continue to have me.”

Watson’s face immediately brightened and “Yes,” was all he could say before Holmes immediately grabbed his hand and led him around the house showing him what window his writing desk would be near. They had a discussion about the location of the Holmes’ laboratory. Holmes wanted to continue his chemistry experiments and Watson wanted the odours away from his writing desk. They had mutually agreed that the middle room upstairs would be the best. 

Bringing the tea things to the sink, Watson started washing them. Through the window over the sink, he watched the steady downpour soak the grasses on the Downs and a gull battling the wind gusts. The rain showed no sign of letting up and he resigned himself to staying in doors for the evening. Tea things washed, he shovelled more coal on the fire to drive away the drafts. He settled down at his desk intent on reviewing the plan Holmes drew up. 

The plans were not... 

The plans... 

The plans were minimal. Lines inside a box were a good beginning, but he preferred a slightly more detailed plan and one that was much more thought out. 

Watson spread out the seed packets in front of him. Unlike his earlier glance, he took time to read the varieties. To his delight, one of the packets was Brightest Scarlet. It was a new offering this year, and one he considered trying, but he went with an older, more proven variety. Watson smiled - trying new varieties he was curious about was a wonderful perk of the Least Awful Radish Experiment. Picking up another packet, he immediately recognized it as a variety he already planted the year before and this year in the larger garden. Perhaps that variety could be replaced by something else. He flipped the page in his garden diary and started listing the names on a blank page. 

Next, Watson considered the side of the plot. He bit the inside of is cheek and tapped the end of the pencil against his lip. He thought that it seemed a waste to devote all of it to a radish experiment. If the fence did keep away the rabbits, then he would be eating radishes for weeks at every meal. Their housekeeper would be here tomorrow, maybe she knew other ways to prepare radishes other than on a salad. Watson added a note to his list of things to mention to the housekeeper, Mrs Glydon. Then again, maybe he could use some of the plot for another vegetable.

***** 

The sun had set and Watson settled in on the settee with a novel. He heard scratching of a chair against floorboard and the distinct creaking of another occupant moving about upstairs. Holmes hummed an upbeat tune, that Watson did not recognize, as he quickly descended. He was radiating with energy and excitement. Holmes traversed the room in a few steps, stood by Watson, and smiled before bending down and kissing him. The excess energy radiating from Holmes seemed to be transferred through the kiss and left Watson a little breathless. 

Smiling up at Holmes, Watson said, “I say, things must be going well?”

“Exceedingly so.”

Holmes turned and walked over to the kitchen to rummage for dinner. 

“There should be leftover cold meats,” said Watson. He had eaten earlier after finishing a new draft of the garden plans.

“No need, I found what I was looking for.” Holmes tore off a chunk of bread and took a large bite. Still chewing, he found a glass and poured water into it. 

“I’ve left a list on the table for our housekeeper. Do you have anything else to add?”

Holmes took a long drink, shook his head no, and took another bite into the bread again.

“About the small garden.”

Holmes shook his head and waved his hand that was still holding the bread. He swallowed that mouthful of bread and turned to go with the glass in hand. He called back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow. I need to return to my reactions.”

****

Watson paused his climb of the stairs as he yawned and he shook his head before continuing. At the top of the stairs, he saw that the door to the laboratory was open. He walked over and leaned against the doorway to watch Holmes work. Holmes was bent over the bench and pouring liquid from one tests tube to another. A cigarette was slowly burning in a dish next to him and the smoke curled upwards until it was disrupted by the faint breeze. The window was cracked to allow some of the fumes to escape into the cold night air. Compared to some of his work in Baker Street, the fumes from this work often had a better smell. Holmes was fascinated not just by the hives and the colony social structure, but by the honey his bees produced. Using his knowledge of chemistry, he set out to analyse their honey. Thankfully, honey produced a much better smell compared to mud from the Thames. 

Watson yawned again. “I’m heading to bed. Try to get some sleep tonight; we have a busy day in town tomorrow.”

Holmes grabbed his cigarette before twisting round. “I will be in soon.” 

Watson smiled and he hoped that it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes is not practicing modern laboratory safety techniques. It makes me twitchy writing it this way, but these were standard for the time and chemists died or were maimed in horrible ways. Nowadays, ventilation is essential and mouth pipetting, eating/drinking, and smoking in the labs are banned. So, don’t do it! Also, wear those closed toed shoes, for Pete’s sake!
> 
> If you are interested, the link for the chemical analysis of honey that Holmes is performing is here: https://archive.org/details/chemicalanalysis00bryarich


	4. To High Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their trip to town where they meet someone and Watson tells Holmes of his revisions.

Mrs Ethel Glydon kept a hand on her hat and tightened her shawl around her against the sudden wind gust. It was a cooler day than what she had hoped and she wished that she brought her warmer shawl with her. Today, if all went well, she should finish with cleaning Mr Holmes’ and Dr Watson’s cottage with plenty of time to meet her sister for lunch and play few games of bridge. 

Following the dirt path, she climbed up the hill and saw the top of the cottage. Smoke was rising from the cottage, which would have been normal for a cool day like today. She quickened her pace and suddenly stopped. The smoke wasn’t only coming from the chimneys. 

Her face went white and she yelled “Mr Holmes! Dr Watson!” She ran to the cottage not realizing that her hat and scarf had fluttered to the ground. 

\------

“We will not have a housekeeper when we return home,” said Watson. He stepped around a pothole in the road and took his place back at Holmes’ side. “She is not nearly as fond of you as Mrs Hudson.”

Holmes laughed which startled a crow. The crow perched on the top of a stone fence and cawed reprimands at them until they passed. At least someone else was giving them an earful. 

Watson looked back and the crow took off and few over a farmer’s wheat field. “I expect her resignation when we return.”

“Unlikely, Watson, she will stay. While she is discreet, she will likely explain to her sister why her shawl and hat are dirty. It gives her another morsel for the rumour mill to devour and add to the collection of oddities of a particular resident. As you have shown with your tales, the public is rather interested in the happenings of a now retired detective.”

Watson digested this bit of information as they walked. A car drove pass and they waved while the driver honked at them as he passed. 

“The car would have been faster,” said Holmes wearily. 

“It would have, but then we would have been deprived of this invigorating walk on a rather pleasant day. I much prefer this type of exercise to the running around thinking our house was burning down type.

“What I don’t understand Holmes is why were you in the laboratory at that time doing that experiment. You knew we needed to leave at a specific time.” 

Watson looked over at Holmes who suddenly became very interested in the end of his walking stick.

“Sherlock Holmes, you did this on purpose.”

“If you are referring to mixing two chemicals together for a reaction, then yes, I did.” Holmes looked to his side before realizing that Watson no longer there, but behind him, motionless. He sighed. “The reaction, which was completely harmless, went faster than anticipated and it was something I was planning on doing anyway. I had a few moments before we left and I thought I would try it.”

Watson started walking again and matched steps with Holmes. He was unappeased by the answer. “You could have read a book or returned lost drinking glasses.”

Holmes smirked. “This was more interesting, thus more fun.” 

Realizing this was not something he would win, Watson asked about the results of his other, less destructive experiments with honey. Holmes enthusiastically described his results of analysing the different sugars in his honey samples. One of his errands today was to send a letter to a contact in America to request another protocol and sample of their honey.

The pastoral sounds of birds, bees, and beasts were slowly replaced with more man-made varieties of cars, chatter, and clinking metal. They dodged bicyclists and passed groups of children trundling hoops and jumping rope on their route to the high street. Once there, they separated and Watson started on his errands. He needed to send a wire to Mr Longman for more compost and fertilizer, since the new garden bed was rather barren and purchase a new variety of radish to replace the one he removed from Holmes’ plan. He considered stopping by the Veteran’s Office. Sprigg’s Bookshop happened to be on his way to the pub where he was to meet Holmes for lunch. Watson thought he would see if anything was of interest today since his other book was almost finished. 

\----

New book in hand and moments to spare before he was expected, Watson headed out. He walked in the direction of the red roof of Saint Mary’s. The bells in the clock tower signalled the hour just as he was approaching the path to the church’s entrance. A group of ladies in brightly coloured dresses and hats were walking down the path, voices chattering away excitedly. In the centre of the group, Watson spotted Mrs Lloyd. Like her fellow companions, her hat was adorned with a cheerful display of flowers which matched her disposition well. She appeared to be a little older than most of her companions, and Watson regrettably remembered that she was slightly younger than his sixty plus year-old self. 

Upon seeing Watson, Mrs Lloyd’s whole expression brightened and she enthusiastically waved to him. Watson politely smiled and waved back. She excused herself from her group.

“Dr Watson, how good it is to see you. Will you be attending the plant sale?”

“I will be.”

“Wonderful! I have just come from a planning meeting and I am reminding all I know to come to the sale. The Plant Society is donating a portion of the proceeds to the veteran fund.”

“That is quite good of them.”

“Oh, it is! I am responsible for the bake goods,” Mrs Lloyd said with pride. 

“Will you be bringing anything?”

“The other organizers have requested my award-winning strawberry scones. They were Mr Lloyd’s favourite, God rest his soul.” She paused. “I’m impatiently waiting for the strawberries to ripen up. I do have leftover strawberry jam, but it isn’t the same.” She leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, “The other organizers do this to me every year.”

Watson chuckled. “I regret that I have not tried your scones.”

“They are award winning,” she said and gave Watson a wink. “How did you manage to not try them? You were at the plant sale last year.”

“I –“

She cut off Watson’s excuse with a chuckle. “It’s fine.” Then she whispered, “I will be sure to save you one.”

“Thank you. Would you mind if I asked for another favour?”

She nodded her head.

“Do you happen to have any recipes for radishes?”

Mrs Lloyd scrunched her eyebrows together. “Besides just putting them on salads?”

“Yes, preferably ones that use a lot of them.” 

While Mrs Lloyd tapped her lip as she thought, Watson looked over the top of her hat covered head and saw Holmes cross the street heading towards them. Holmes’ gate and how he set his jaw informed Watson that he was not pleased to see Mrs Lloyd. 

“Mrs Lloyd, how good it is to see you again,” Holmes said in a polite, but neutral tone.

“Mr Holmes! I did not notice your approach. The pleasure is mine.” Mrs Lloyd paused and after considering him briefly. “Are you sure you are well? You are looking a little pale today. Hopefully the beautiful weather we are having today will help clear that up.”

Before Holmes could reply she continued, “I was just reminding to Dr Watson about our little plant and bake good sale. Dr Watson, would you agree that in the interest of our veterans that Mr Holmes should donate a few jars of his honey?” 

To anyone else, Holmes would have looked as he always had; his face the cold mask he held up to the world, but polite in the company of others. To Watson, he saw the tension increase in his face and the subtle tightening of his expression that shouted his agitation.

“While it is ultimately up to him, I am sure that we’d be delighted to,” answered Watson quickly. 

“Hmm, are we?” said Holmes.

“Always interested in helping out a good cause.” Watson reminded Holmes. 

“Ah, yes. Well, I will donate a few in the interest of a good cause.”

Mrs Lloyd, who was beginning to look worried, beamed, “Thank you both. Dr Watson, I knew I could count on you. I will have those recipes for you and a scone when I see you at the plant sale.” Mrs Lloyd looked up at Watson and sighed meaningfully before excusing herself. Holmes shot Watson a glance and Watson bit the inside of his lip to try to hide his amusement. 

Both men watched Mrs Lloyd walk down the street a little way before finding another town folk to remind about the plant sale. 

“Lunch?” Watson asked extending the crook of his arm. The tension in Holmes’ body released a little and his expression softened a bit. Holmes gave a brief smile at his friend before he took the offered arm. 

\------

The pub they selected was busy, but the food was decent and they could find a relatively quiet corner to sit. Holmes ate his cottage pie and peas in silence. Watson decided it was best not to bring up the brief encounter with Mrs Lloyd, and he ate his lamb stew and watched the other guests. 

Watson sipped his ale and remembered he needed to update Holmes about the garden plans. “About the radish garden, I am going to replace one of the varieties you selected. I purchased a new one today which I haven’t tried yet.”

Holmes stabbed the pea and looked up. “Why?”

“I grew it last year.”

“Ah.” Holmes set his fork, with the stabbed pea, down. “You may have grown it, but I did not eat it.”

“How did you not eat it? I grew two crops of them last year and added the few that survived with the other pitiful greens.”

“You did…” 

“And?”

“I moved them to your plate when you weren’t looking.” He lifted his fork with the skewered pea and picked up another morsel. Before taking another bite, Holmes said, “Go back to the original plans and radish varieties. That is fine enough for my purposes.”

“But Holmes, we are going to have a lot of radishes even if we remove the one extra variety. I will be eating radishes for every meal. Was your plan to make me dislike them?”

Holmes swallowed and then shook his head. “My dear Watson, you are mistaken. My plan was to find a radish that I liked, not turn you off to a vegetable you clearly enjoy.”

“Then at least consider modifying the plan. If you want to do this thoroughly and test as many possible varieties and radish preparation to find one you might like, it might be better if we plant each week. The radishes will be harvested over time instead of everything at once. That way we can try multiple preparation methods overtime.”

“If we harvest all at once I can be done with this experiment instead of dragging it out. If something happens to that crop, then so much the better.”

“I will plant another in the fall.” Watson pulled out a pencil and paper, which he had gotten in the habit of carrying around and never stopped. “Why don’t we sketch out a plan together?”

“Watson, the other one was fine.”

“If we do it your way and nothing catastrophic happens to the crop, I would prefer not to waste the excess." 

Holmes tightly pressed his lips together before slowly adding, “With all of her connections and willingness to be helpful, Mrs Lloyd would know the appropriate place to donate the remainder.”

Watson waited as he watched Holmes consider this. “Holmes, would you like my pencil?”

Holmes shook his head yes and they began discussing and sketching out the new plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and showing support for this fic.


	5. Sowing Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeds, of many things, are planted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, so my brain went through a spaz and I was having problems with this fic. Thankfully, the amazing Small_Hobbit came with encouragements, mighty beta-ing abilities, and thus helped me out of the funk. Things are moving along and Small_Hobbit has graciously offered to beta the rest of the work (thank you!!!!).
> 
> For kicks and giggles, I made a cover and posted it in Chapter 1.

Filtered light entered through the windows and Watson could make out the Channel and cliff edge ever better as the morning continued to march on. Violent winds and rain had swept through that night waking him and Holmes throughout the night. They had both woke earlier, electing to stay in bed to try catch a few more moments of sleep but plans changed to more personal activities. Afterwards, Holmes lay on his front, arms wrapped around his pillow, and nightshirt forgotten on floor. 

From his side, Watson propped his head on his hand. He listened to the sounds of Holmes breathing next to him and felt the warm puff of air against his skin. The rhythmic in and out was of a steady cadence of a Holmes at rest and not a Holmes who was asleep. “I am trying to work out when was the last time you ate a radish.”

The one eye that Watson could see was shut tight and Holmes’ said, in a voice muffled by a pillow, “Tradition dictates that one goes back to sleep after engaging in rigorous activities with one’s partner.”

Ignoring this, Watson continued his musings. “Last year was minimally successful, but the year before that was an abysmal failure. What about the years prior? It must have been a while ago. When was the last time you tried a radish?”

Holmes softly groaned and begrudgingly opened the one eye visible to Watson. “If I answer, will you let me sleep?”

Watson chuckled and twisted to his side to rub his hand over Holmes’ back.

Holmes rolled over to his side capturing Watson’s hand under his arm. He looked over at Watson. “Some time ago.”

“Then how do you know that you still dislike that vegetable? You are well aware that tastes change as we age. You might like it now.”

Holmes rolled back, releasing Watson’s hand. “And sometimes they do not. You still dislike my brand of tobacco and prefer your own.”

“That is true, and I will stubbornly not change my preference.”

Holmes’ voice was muffled once again. “And I will likely not change my opinion of radishes.”

“Of course,” said Watson and moved to search for his nightshirt. “We are, after all, obstinate old men who are firmly settled in our patterns and habits.” 

Holmes grunted in agreement and Watson felt his eyes on him. “Habit like you sleeping on your side of the bed, you thoroughly bedding your partner, you bringing tea for me to drink in bed…”

Watson tossed Holmes’ nightshirt at him. “I will make tea, but it will stay on the table. After planting the radish seeds for your experiment, I am going to head down to the shore and see what has been washed up. I should have time before the plant sale. You are welcome join if you would like.“

“I will go to the shore, but not the plant sale.”

\----

The radish bed had been finished the previous day by turning the earth over, adding compost, and smoothing the surface. The fence, dutifully guarding nothing, was in place. After a day of working the radish bed and the sudden rain storm, Watson had elected to plant the seeds the next day. He wondered how his seedlings in the other bed had fared the storm. The hopeful beginnings of his garden were already showing. The onions were no longer thin green strings and the peas shoots would need something to climb on soon. Lettuce and other greens were ready to start harvesting. The radishes from his larger bed had already sprouted and were sporting a few new leaves. Those he would not force on Holmes, but would enjoy them alone.

Watson left the cottage carrying seed packets in one hand and the garden diary in the other. In the garden diary, Watson had copied their plans for the plot. The detailed plan was perhaps a little excessive considering it was just for radishes, but he would still follow it.

In the distance, a bird cried out. The crisp call of "tea-cher, tea-cher" from a Great Tit reminded Watson of a squeaky wheel barrow. He gently laid his supplies next to the radish bed and inspected the larger bed. While damp and a little bent over from the heavy rain, the seedlings looked as if they would make it. In the radish bed, he moved the earth to form a shallow trench and the bird song blended with the scraping sound of the trowel against the damp soil. 

A bang from the door and Holmes walking to his shed silenced the birds momentarily. Holmes called out, “I’ll be but a moment and we can walk to the shore.”

Holmes was carrying a drinking glass down to his shed and Watson updated his mental tally of glasses he would need to retrieve. He sighed and smiled; planting was proceeding smoothly and all was going well.

\----

Holmes toed at a crunchy green mound of sea kale releasing a swarm of small bugs. “How long until the radishes can be harvest?” Holmes said. He was trying to sound disinterested, but Watson knew better. 

“About twenty-five days for fully mature radishes, but they can be harvested earlier,” said Watson. He took his eyes off the white caps of the of the water which was churning between different shades of brown. “We will, of course, need to tenderly care, weed, and water them as they grow and mature into their full potential.”

“Just call it gardening. Don’t wax poetically at something that is a pushing around dirt, deterring insects, and killing unwanted plants.”

“As both a writer and a gardener, I can wax or wane as I please - I could begin describing your beekeeping in such terms if you would like.”

Holmes grumbled and changed direction towards the shore and the crashing waves. Watson stayed by the clumps of sea kale and watched him. There was almost something boyish of Holmes walking near the shore at low tide carrying his shoes, trousers rolled up, and the water trying to lap at his ankles. The breeze ruffled the remains of his grey hair, giving him an unkempt and soft look. Holmes stopped and squatted by what looked like a flat, smooth rock on the shore. Watson could just make out Holmes reaching to touch it and immediately he let out a cry of pain followed by an oath. Holmes stumbled and let out another cry before buckling to one knee. 

Watson inhaled sharply. “Holmes!” The pebbles were giving way under his bare feet as he tried to move resisting his need to get to Holmes quickly. 

“Stay!” Holmes said between gasps. 

Watson halted, debating whether to ignore that command or not. ”Holmes, you need help!”

“No, the jellyfish left parts all over the beach.” Holmes stood slowly. “I can make it to you” He ended in another moan as he took a step followed by another step. 

Watching this was almost too much for Watson and he inched forward, preparing to rush to Holmes’ side ignoring his command. Holmes stumbled towards him and Watson caught him. He gently tugged on Holmes to follow and guided him to sit near the sea kale. 

Kneeling, Watson ignored the protest from his leg and immediately examined Holmes. His experienced fingers moving proficiently through the routine motions learned from decades of practice. Holmes’ foot was beginning to swell and his breathing was growing shallow and the sound was a slightly higher pitch. “Stubborn old man, you should have let me come to you.”

Watson could see strand-like red marks forming and gently prodded the injury. Holmes hissed in response saying, “You would have been hurt.”

Stilling his hands, Watson caught Holmes’ gaze. “That has not stopped me before.” He returned his attention to the injuries and frowned. “We need to get you back home. Your foot is rather inflamed and will need attention.” He did not mention the more worrying breathing symptoms. He helped Holmes to his feet and began the journey home.

Holmes was a heavy weight against his side and was getting heavier as they slowly walked up the rocky trail. Watson knew that it was taking effort for Holmes to keep from crying out with pain and his breathing became more laboured as they slowly picked their way around the more trecherous rocks. Watson’s body was aching, but he pushed through it. He could see the top of the cliffs, and he knew, not to the exact step, how long it would take to get home.

“Holmes, I see the cottage. Almost there,” said Watson between heavy breaths. Holmes gave a weak nod.   
The walk to the cottage was a blur. In the cottage, Watson gently deposited Holmes on the couch and gave him strict instructions not to move. He immediately retrieved his bag from upstairs, followed by a blanket and pillow from another room. Before descending, he reminded himself to keep calm. He breathed in and out slowly and repeated the breaths before tending to Holmes again.

\----

The time piece on the mantel ticked its way through the seconds and minutes as it had the day before. Watson ceased to recognize the sound and startled when it chimed the hour. 

Stiff from his vigil, Watson shifted in the chair and, to feel like he was doing something, nudged his chair closer to where Holmes was laying on the couch. He was waiting for Holmes to wake up and show signs that he was through the worst of this reaction. He held Holmes’ hand and rubbed his thumb over the hand. He took note of a healing scratch between his forefinger and thumb that Holmes had gotten it tending a hive frame days ago. 

Holmes stirred. He slowly opened his eyes, taking time reorienting himself. 

“Try not to sit up yet.” Watson whispered, trying to keep his voice calm and was very nearly successful. He released Holmes’ hand and picked up his stethoscope. He blew on and rubbed the cool instrument to impart some warmth into it before pressing the instrument to Holmes’ chest. He noticed that his hands were trembling slightly despite his efforts to maintain control. 

Holmes brought his hand over Watsons. “That jellyfish will not succeed where London’s criminals have failed, my dear boy.” 

Holmes smiled briefly and gave Watson’s hand a squeeze before laying back and closing his eyes letting Watson work. Watson finished his examination and was relieved that Holmes was looking better. He swapped the stethoscope for a glass of brandy by his seat. “Here, drink this. I can give you something for the pain.”

Holmes shook his head. “I am fine.”

“I’d like you to rest for a little while. We should… We should move you upstairs. It will be more comfortable.”

He helped Holmes sit up and guide him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Holmes slowly changed himself and settled into their bed and closed his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Holmes’ hand in his own. “Try to rest if you can. In a little bit, you’ll have one of your wishes fulfilled.”

“Oh?” Holmes opened his eyes and slowly lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ll bring you tea in bed.”


	6. Germination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germination: n   
> “the development of a plant from a seed or spore after a period of dormancy.  
> “the process of something developing.”

A thud came from the library, followed by the flip of pages, a grumble, and another thud. Watson looked up from his desk and saw the shadow of Holmes picking up another book. Holmes had been at it for most of the morning. He seemed determined to make up for the day he lost resting due to his encounter with the jellyfish and his fit of energy centred in on the library. At first, Watson was happy that Holmes would most likely be inactive and reading in a chair which would let him recover further. As time dragged on, he realized that Holmes was not resting but getting more energetic as he searched through the library. 

Watson, pen in hand, stretched and considered making tea. He had slept poorly the night after the jellyfish attack, needing the reassurance that the man sleeping next to him was still there, warm and breathing. Holmes had tolerated the extra attention until this morning when he entered one of the focused states which was usually left to unravelling a crime. To keep an eye on Holmes and not hover, which would have annoyed Holmes further, Watson chose to stay indoors and organize his case notes. Outside was warm, dry and beautiful, but being away from Holmes was not desirable. 

Another thump further disturbed Watson. He placed the pen down and rose from his chair. The library was in a separate room across from the sitting room and the door was wide open. He leaned against the doorframe taking in the disorganization of the library. Books, dislodged from their respective places on the shelves, lay in piles near an arm chair. Loose papers were scattered around the arm chair and desk. 

Holmes was intensely focused on the open book in his hands, his fingers tracking over the words in the page. He was still dressed in his nightshirt and one of his lighter dressing gowns was wrapped around him. Watson was thankful that their housekeeper was unable to come today and she was spared further scandal. Although this time, the bohemian habit was out of necessity to reduce the irritation on the injuries that trousers would cause. 

Holmes gave a cry of excitement and spun towards Watson. “Watson, perfect timing. I have discovered the identity of the criminal.”

“Did I miss a telegram or letter? I did not know you were still taking cases.”

“What?” Holmes crinkled his forehead briefly before immediately waving his hand to dismiss it. “No, nothing of that sort. Here.” He thrust the book in Watson’s hand tapping on page filled with illustrations of jellyfish. Their orange and brown tentacles swirled around the page and the illustrator had taken great care to depict the delicate nature of these creatures - they looked disarmingly beautiful. 

“ _Cyaneacapillata_ or the Lion’s Mane.”

Holmes placed another book, which had been sitting on the top of a pile, face up, and tapped on a paragraph. “This naturalist writes of a little over seven foot one washing up in America. I encountered a small one by comparison.”

“ ‘Most healthy, young man have little to fear from the stings of this gigantic jellyfish,’ ” read Watson. As Holmes turned and settled himself in the armchair and picked up another book, Watson frowned and swallowed back the comment of _you are not that young_.

“Have you heard of anyone dying of an attack?” said Holmes suddenly.

Watson paused, a little taken a back by the question. “Not in my recollection. Do any of the naturalists mention it?”

“No, nor did this other author.” Holmes gestured at the book in his lap. “But, if someone were to die of an attack, how do you suppose it would happen?”

“The pain was quite excruciating?”

“Quite.”

“Perhaps shock to an already weakened system,” Watson ventured. “Or maybe it is similar to a hornet sting and only some poor souls have a violent reaction.”

Holmes bit the tip of one finger, whilst a finger from the other hand tapped on the book on his lap. His face took on an introspective look that Watson was very familiar with and knew that he would finally be settling down to think. 

Watson left to make tea. He returned to find Holmes still thinking and set the tea things by him before returning to his case notes. At least tea was available in case Holmes was interested.

\-----

The wounds from the jellyfish did not react further and healed quickly over the next few days. To Watson’s relief, life slipped back into the comfortable normalcy of errands, gardening, and apiary work. Although Holmes spent more time at his desk writing something that Watson assumed was related to his honey experiments.

The misty morning brought a chill to the air that caused Watson’s old wounds to ache. He chose to stay indoors and picked up on the writing he had left the few days before. Holmes had been wandering in and out of the cottage all morning. 

Pausing by the door, Holmes asked, “will you be joining me outside?”

“No, I was going to spend today indoors,” said Watson, turning his attention back to the notes scattered on his desk. “I was trying to organize my notes for the case of that peculiarly acting professor.” 

“Ha!” exclaimed Holmes. “That case is hardly worth the effort. There are others that are better use of your time.”

“Time! But the case shows your use of logic with the unique timing.” 

Holmes laughed and set his hat on his head. “Come out when you can,” he said and then left. 

Watson continued as he planned and tried to ignore Holmes’ offer, but his curiosity got the better of him. He organized his notes, donned his light weatherproof jacket, and went out. Holmes was not visible from the door and Watson hugged his jacket tighter before walking down the path by the vegetable garden beds. He quickly inspected the first, which was growing wonderfully, and moved to stand by the radish bed. 

Fragile leaves poked out of the ground. They must have newly emerged given their green and yellow colour. A gardener friend had mentioned they were called cotyledons. Some of the seedling’s cotyledons were still pressed together and caught in the act of unfurling. Watson inspected the bed closely and saw even more seedlings trying to break through the soil surface. The whitish stem, or hypocotyl as the friend had corrected, was just visible for the other seedlings. He would need to sow the next planting in the next few days.

Something inside him unwound and he relaxed; the little nagging anxiety silenced till next season. Life had chosen to express its dramatic nature and the nagging thought of checking the garden was a small voice he had mostly ignored. There was a certain faith you had to take when planting a seed, as Watson was well aware. The plants would grow, and no amount of worrying or fretting on his part would make them grow faster. It was a simple matter of patience and waiting. He gave the little seedlings a smile before heading down the path to look for Holmes.

Movement down the road caught his eye and he saw that it was the postman. He walked around the cottage to meet him. The postman dismounted from his bike and picked out a small stack of letters from his mailbag. He handed the letters to Watson, tipped his hat and left. 

Not wanting the letters to get damp, Watson tucked them under his jacket and into his waistcoat as he walked back through the drizzling rain. He took another path around the other side of the cottage and jumped into a defensive position when a brown streak sprang down the path before freezing in front of a bush. Watson and the rabbit stood motionless, staring eachother down. The rabbit kept its ears pointed at Watson; its body coiled and ready to leap away if the human drew too close. Watson breathed out slowly and flexed his hands, reminding himself that it was only rabbit.

“Off you go. There is plenty for you eat away from my garden. No need to be here.” The rabbit’s nose twitched. Watson stepped forward and flapped his arms. “Go on, shoo.” The rabbit reached the end of its bravery and dashed into the bush. Watson returned his arms to his side. A letter had fallen on the ground and he bent to retrieve it before continuing his walk around the house. 

He pushed the door with more force than he intended and then turned to take off his jacket. He stretched up to hang his jacket when a voice behind him made him jump and inhale suddenly. He turned and let out a shaky laughed. “I thought you were with your bees.”

“I came in to prepare lunch. Tea?” Holmes said lifting the kettle before starting to heat it. Soon the room was filled with sounds of rummaging through cupboards. 

“Yes, thank you.” Watson took the letters out of his pocket and began sorting them. “Most of these are bills. Oh, you have a letter from your bee friend.” He set the letters aside and walked over to Holmes who passed a loaf of bread to him before Holmes continued searching the cabinets for what would probably be plates. “I saw that rabbit.” 

“Ah, that was the other thing that startled you. You haven’t been that jumpy in a while.”

“I haven’t seen it since… maybe last fall,” said Watson as he placed the bread on the table. He walked back to the cupboards and found the large bowl. “I’ll gather some greens for lunch. I planted extra radishes, maybe you would like to try a green in your salad?” 

Holmes pulled a face and Watson laughed.

“OK, ok, I won’t harvest extra radishes for you. I’ll also check the fence, hopefully it will continue to deter the rabbits.”

“If not, the rabbit will likely enjoy the radish experiment far more than me,” said Holmes, setting two plates on the table. 

“Perhaps,” said Watson heading back to the door. “But, perhaps you might find that you enjoy them.”


	7. Thinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Removal of seedlings or plant tissue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to thesmallhobbit for the beta!

“You could try one,” said Watson holding up a tiny radish seedling he had just pulled out of the ground. He bit another one, enjoying the spicy flavour of the thread-like radish root.

Holmes stood to the right of Watson, arms akimbo, looking distrustfully at the sprout. “I see no reason to rush things.”

“It’s a perk of gardening.” Watson wiggled the seedling. Holmes made no move to accept the offending vegetable and continued to glare at it.

“You could just continue thinning, and plant something else… Maybe a flower that the bees would like. Yes, we need to put in more of those. Think of the subtle flavours it would impart in the honey.” Holmes trailed off, thoughtfully.

“No, this area we’ve agreed would be devoted to vegetable gardens. Your bees do not need anymore space.” Watson ate the radish thread and looked up at Holmes. “This least awful radish experiment was your idea.”

“One I beginning to regret.”

Watson sighed, signalling Holmes to help him stand up. “Holmes, no one - _I_ am not forcing you to do this.”

“A fact I am well aware of, but I have no desire to rush into personally engaging in this experiment.”

“As you wish. There are other gardening perks, though” Watson walked towards the larger bed and kneeled down in front of the rows of radishes and carrots. He pulled an immature carrot, one that was growing too close to a neighbour, and handed it up to Holmes. He willingly accepted it, cleaned off the dirt with his fingers, and bit the miniature carrot. 

“Just imagine,” said Watson in a hopeful voice as he motioned to the trellis. “In a week or so, the peas will be ready to harvest. The spinach and lettuce are doing wonderfully and we’ll continue enjoying those. I’ve already been enjoying some older radishes from my other bed, which you are welcome to eat,” said Watson and Holmes shook his head. “At least, we should have some something from the garden to share with Stackhurst at dinner tomorrow.”

“I’ve already informed the housekeeper that we are expecting company.” 

“Excellent.” said Watson pointing to the ground next to him. “Now, help me gather some lettuce to eat for lunch.”

\-----

The next morning, Watson sat on a wobbly wicker chair outside the cottage. He exhaled a puff of smoke that curled in the light breeze before he sucked on his pipe again. He thought about the case he was writing. The plot was not flowing as clearly as he would have liked. There was not the twist of some of the other cases; the trite romantic interest he had seen time and time again. Soaking in the warm morning sun and watching the sea birds soaring on the swells was providing little inspiration. Perhaps a walk would prove more inspirational. 

“Still working on the professor case?” said Holmes from the doorway, interrupting Watson’s musings. Watson had not heard the door open. 

“Yes,” Watson groaned and scrubbed his face with his free hand. “There is no deep, complex mystery to it.”

“I could have told you that before you spent days toiling on it. He only acted strangely before seeing a doctor about his fear of monkeys - hardly an interesting tale.”

Watson tapped his pipe thoughtfully. “What if it is the monkey or something from the monkey that is making him act oddly?” Holmes gave Watson a dismayed look. “I’ll think about it further. Hearing about one of my writing difficulties can’t be the reason you sought me out.”

“No, it was not. Since you seem to be stuck, perhaps you could better spend your time reading my manuscript.”

Watson tried to suppress a smile. Holmes _was_ working on a manuscript, just as he has suspected. “I’d be glad to read one of your manuscripts on your honey research. I may not understand it, but I would like to read what you have been doing.”

“That will have to wait until I finish analysing the data and write it up.” Watson tried to stifle his disappointment, but Holmes caught it anyway. “You are quite mistaken about the honey manuscript, this one is… more to your taste.”

Holmes led Watson inside and gestured to the stack of paper on Watson’s desk. On the first page in Holmes’ distinct handwriting was “the Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.” 

Watson picked up the papers and traced the writing with his finger before looking up at Holmes. It was one thing for Holmes to claim that he would write a case many years ago, and another to be holding the materialized manuscript. “You wrote. One… I mean, you wrote up a case.” 

“Yes, and I have written it in the proper way,” said Holmes. He cleared his throat and used a tone he usually reserved for outlining the finer details of a case. “I have created a scientific exercise that instructs the reader in the fine points of deductive reasoning. You do recall that I have recommended you adapt your stories in this way?”

“You have,” said Watson slowly while he flipped idly through the document deciding whether to comment further or not. Holmes was proud of his work and Watson could hear it in his voice. Watson wanted to support this work and ensure it was published, yet would he take kindly to Watson directly challenging him on that statement? If offended, Holmes might take an oath of silence and destroy the unbelievable document in his hands. Perhaps a less direct approach was needed to get a better understanding of this work and suggest the likely changes. “This is what you have been working on since the jellyfish encounter?” 

Holmes nodded and sat at the table which was already prepared with the tea things. Reluctant to part from the manuscript, Watson considered bringing it to the table, but decided against it in the event of something catastrophic occurring. Holmes began preparing Watson’s tea how he liked it as he sat himself across from Holmes.

“Lion’s mane… I don’t recall you having a case with a jellyfish in it.”

“And your memory is not wrong,” said Holmes as he finished making Watson’s tea. “Since you have taken the liberty of heavily editing or blending together multiple cases, I have done the same. My encounter with the jellyfish was most inspiring and I have sensationalized it, as you have been so fond in doing, by changing the mundane killer to a jellyfish.”

“We have had other cases where an animal was the killer, but I wouldn’t consider some of those animals mundane. Which case did you alter?”

After taking a sip, Holmes spoke. “You will not recall the original case because it was shortly after your marriage. It was before the business with the Red-headed league. I had not bothered recounting it to you.”

Watson felt the urge to take notes on this case and quickly began patting his waistcoat to retrieve his notebook. In his rush, he bumped the table causing some tea to spill from the tea cups. 

Holmes arched his eye brow. “No need to take notes on the case, my boy, as I have already done that,” said Holmes waving in the direction of the manuscript on Watson’s desk. 

“I would like to hear the unaltered case first, since I am unfamiliar with it. That is, if you wouldn’t mind.” Watson stammered and then added quickly. “I’ll read the manuscript too. I am assuming you would like my opinion on it?”

“If you feel that it is needed, then yes.” Holmes continued. “I have taken the liberty of removing the romantic nonsense and have stuck to more rational thoughts and reasoning. In the case, I made active use of my brain attic to recall an obscure piece of information that was critical to solving the identity of the murderer. I’ve focused on facts and the steps I used in stringing them together in a chain of logic and reasoning. My deductive methods which are used to narrow down the potential candidates are emphasized and explained. It’s all in the manuscript, and I do not wish to, say, spoil the ending by telling you it now.”

“That is fine, I will still read it.”

Holmes considered this. “No, I have changed my mind.”

“But…”

“I wish you to read the story first to weigh its literary merit before I bias you towards the original mystery.”

“In that case, I am eager to read it.”

“Splendid.” He clapped his hands together, “And I will leave you to your readings.”

\-----

Holmes sat across from Watson, leaned forward with his arms resting on the table. Watson re-straightened the already straightened stack of papers on which Holmes had written his manuscript and Watson had provided edits just that afternoon. Watson swallowed before beginning, already feeling tense. “Well, it sounds like you with the short prose and precise terms, which is good. It shouldn’t sound like me, since you wrote it, but…”

Holmes sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “But?”

“Doyle will likely suggest changes.” 

“Such as?”

“Well, for one you need to account for where I am. The audience is accustomed to me as your biographer who-

“Is inaccurate, spins tales filled with romantic rubbish-“

Watson sighed. “Not the point. Still, explaining why I am not recording is important.”

Holmes frowned. “If you say so resident expert in these things. Well, ‘the good doctor had passed beyond my keen’ might do.”

“It’s a start.”

“Will that be all?”

Watson hesitated and swallowed. “Holmes, it is impersonal. For a manuscript on deductions for strictly teaching purposes, it would be fine; but, for a story to be published in… where?

“The Strand, like all of the others.”

“Yes, of course, the Strand. Well, it needs some warmth. The reader learns nothing new about you.”

Holmes threw up his hands. “It’s outside the case, and I have outlined the facts in a clear fashion.”

“And you have done that completely. There are large sections of expose and the regurgitation of facts is similar to your other-“ 

Holmes took notice of something outside the window and suddenly got up. “Ah, the postman has arrived. I’ll retrieve our mail and we can continue the romanization of my works when I return.”

Watson sat with his mouth agape as Holmes left the cottage and shut the door roughly behind him. He looked up at the ceiling and breathed in deeply. This was not going as he had hoped. Maybe showing Holmes an example of what he was trying to explain might help. He opened the manuscript and quickly scanned through the text. 

When the door opened again, Watson immediately started explaining. “Holmes, look at this section here, it…” He stopped when Holmes deposited a letter in front of him. Watson set down the manuscript and picked up the letter. The letter was thick and smelled heavily of roses. Holmes reached over, picked up the manuscript, and silently departed upstairs. Watson watched him leave and then looked at the letter. He deciphered from the exaggerated looping writing a name: Mrs Lloyd.

He opened the letter and began mumbling selections aloud to no one in particular. “Sorry for not seeing you at the plant sale… Very busy… Could not get away. We sold out of everything, which is rather wonderful.” Watson stopped reading aloud as he quickly skimmed the rest of the letter, seeing that she had sent him multiple radish recipes and promises of more. The end of the letter should not have surprised him, but he swore anyway - Mrs Lloyd had invited him over for tea. 

\----

The cottage was rich with the smell of roasting beef, onions and, what, Watson presumed, was thyme. Watson checked on the meat pie that their housekeeper had brought over to make sure that it was cooking properly. 

Not sure what else to do with himself, Watson considered checking on Holmes, but then decided against it. Instead, he opened a bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass. 

Holmes had been in an uncommunicable mood since their discussion of the manuscript and the arrival of the letter that afternoon. Holmes kept to himself walled off in his chemistry room, giving curt answers, if any at all, to Watson’s questions. 

With each rebuttal, Watson felt the tension in his gut tighten and a worming thought kept eating away at his ability to concentrate. This was not how he hoped their discussion would go. He knew from past experiences that pressing Holmes would accomplish nothing - Holmes did whatever he did on his own terms. Watson would give the space and the time he needed, and would discuss this with him later. 

Watson swirled his wine in his glass and inhaled the fruity aromas which blended wonderfully with the smells in the kitchen. He was not sure what was bothering Holmes more: the attention from Mrs Lloyd or the manuscript. Even Holmes had had potential female suitors who tried to win his heart, only to fail when he showed them no interest. Watson just needed to be patient, that’s all, and all would be revealed in time. Besides, Holmes was his spouse, in all but acknowledged title, and they were equally devoted. The manuscript was mostly uncharted territory. He did proofread his other works, but usually those were presented in such a finalized state that they did not need many drastic changes. He sighed, finished his glass, and got up to check the meal once more. 

when Stackhurst was due to arrive, Watson worried that even social niceties for a good friend would not be enough to convince Holmes to come down. He was partially incorrect. Holmes emerged from his chemistry room and helped with the finishing touches for the dinner. Their conversations were minimal and utilitarian, thus keeping to the necessities of setting up for dinner. 

A knock turned Holmes’ attention to the door. After the second knock, Holmes warmly welcomed Stackhurst into their cottage. 

“Evening Stackhurst, I see you have not taken your usual route,” said Holmes opening the door for their guest.

“Ah, Mr Holmes, you are up to your tricks again.” He wagged a finger at Holmes as he took off his hat and coat. Holmes took them and his walking stick. Stackhurst, who kept his bag, greeted Watson with a smile and a firm handshake. 

“I was picking up this,” he produced a whiskey bottle from his bag. ”I had to leave early as they are fixing a pipe and the pavement is torn up once again. Will they ever be done tearing up that section of road? Us folks have places to go.” 

“That we do,” said Watson. “Thank you for your extra errand, we will enjoy this after dinner.”

To someone who did not know Holmes well, he would have appeared perfectly personable and charming. But, Watson knew Holmes was still upset and hiding it with the expected politeness of an English gentleman. During their lively conversations, they ate their fill of the meal and drank the bottle Watson had opened. That bottle was soon finished and another was opened. 

After dinner came cards and the whiskey that Stackhurst had brought. It was good, very good and he kept pouring hearty portions into Watson’s glass whenever he almost finished. Watson and Stackhurst played. Something. Something that Watson was not sure of the name or even the rules. But they played and laughed heartedly. Holmes occasionally added to the conversation, preferring to listen and sip his drink in a… something. Glass! Or, at least, Watson thought that was what Holmes was doing. At this point he was not entirely trusting himself. He was thankful that Stackhurst had a better tolerance and chattered away about the newest disagreement between the two professors at the Gables. Something about a dog. Or was it a women? The stories kept blending together.

After another round of whatever card game they were playing, Stackhurst tried to point his finger at Watson. “Mrs Lloyd, that is her name, has sights and they are good ones. Her sights on you, lucky man.” Stackhurst paused and stared longingly into his cup before continuing. “And whatever she has her beautiful sights on, she gets. She’s a fine, persistent woman. Oh, the lucky Doctor will be married off this Tuesday.” Stackhurst lifted his glass towards Watson in some sort of solute. He turned to Holmes and tried to sober up a bit. “As for you, you’d best be looking for a new roommate soon, Mr Holmes. One of the professors I was telling you about would be an excellent companion for you. Let me tell you more about him.” 

Watson, who was at the limit of his alcohol consumption for the evening and so nursing his last drink, downed the drink in one gulp and went for another.


	8. Pests and Weeds

The morning light burned away the mist that settled over the cottage that Holmes and Watson called home. The faint tinkling of the windchimes outside blended well with the peaceful koo-koo song of the dove who nested under one of the bedroom windows. Even the bees, the industrious creatures that they are, seemed lulled into the serene mood and were lazily sipping nectar from the flowers around the cottage. The sun light filtered through the curtains to give the room a soft glow.

Watson found this all hateful. He mentally swore coarse oaths at the dove. He considered burning the windchime to silence the racket. Groaning and rolling over, he tossed the blankets over his head and willed the sun to go away. That led to over-heating and he tore back the covers in despair. 

He felt around for Holmes and found that he was alone in the bed. Which was likely for the best, because he was in a murderous mood. 

What an idiot he had been. He was no longer a young man and consuming that much drink, even in the company of friends, was an ill-conceived notion. 

He carefully inched his legs out of the bed and sat up. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and willed the room to stop spinning and his stomach from spasming. Watson moved slowly. He unconsciously kept his eyebrows drawn together, got up, and shuffled to the door. His attention was caught by a glass of water on the dresser and a note. 

_Drink this if you can.  
Breakfast is ready - SH_

Watson drank the water. After attending to his other needs, he slowly got dressed and decided against shaving that morning. He descended the stairs to the kitchen area. 

The table was set with toast, boiled eggs, and a tea pot. He staggered over to it and sat down not giving much of a thought to who made his breakfast. He began cracking an egg when a sudden thought popped into his head - had he remembered to close and lock the gate to the gardens? He had visited the day before, but was the gate left open or properly closed? Then there was that rabbit from the other day. If the gate was left open he was sure his garden would be no more. 

Watson got up and looked down longingly at his egg before walking to the coat rack. He found the widest brimmed hat he owned and jammed it on his head. He slipped his bare feet in his shoes, not bothering to lace his boots properly, and went out quickly before he changed his mind. Standing steps away from the door, he almost did so as he squinted to allow his eyes to adjust to the onslaught of bright light. He swayed as a wave of nausea hit him. Of all days to be a gorgeous and sunny day, it had to be this one. Why couldn’t today be a rainy day? Or dark, dark would be even better.

He brushed that thought aside and gathered enough physical bullheadedness to push through. The bottoms of his trousers became wet as he trudged through the damp grass. At the first garden bed, he noted that the gate was properly fastened, and no damage had occurred. His garden was safe. He moved to the next bed where Holmes’ Least Awful Radish Experiment was growing nicely. The radish leaves were barely the width of his hand and a drop of moisture decorated each point of their leaves. Thankful that there were still radishes to admire, Watson turned his attention to inspect the gate and found that this too was fastened as it should be. This garden was also safe.

“Well, better safe than sorry,” said Watson to the gate. He stepped forward to pat the gate and paused with his hand extended. He spied a hand trowel laying near a row of immature radishes covered in the morning dew. That was rather forgetful of him, but he reasoned that he was distracted yesterday and maybe that was what bothering him enough to pull him away from his breakfast. He unlocked the gate and retrieved the hand trowel. In the process, he dislodged the droplets thus getting his hands wet. He frowned at the moisture and wiped it off on the leg of his trousers as they were already wet. 

After double and triple checking that the gate was closed and shut properly, he walked through the damp grass to the shed. The light walk and fresh air were starting to clear his head and his stomach protested very little. He was marginally better able to appreciate his surroundings as he entered the shed. Empty wooden frames were stacked in a corner and jars were stacked on a work bench. He looked at his companion’s clutter, which had an organizational system of their own, with fondness until he saw three drinking glasses sitting in front of the jars near the edge of the work bench, as well as some gloves he had misplaced. He pressed his lips together and roughly gathered up the glasses and the gloves. His headache slammed back in full force and he marched back to the cottage. 

Arriving at the front door, Watson stomped his feet to dislodge mud and grass. Adding to his annoyance, he realized that he had no free hand to immediately open the door. He shuffled the items in his arms and dropped one of the gloves. At that moment the door opened and he was greeted by Holmes. Holmes was in one of his suits he typically wore when going into town.

Holmes bent down to pick up the glove on the doorstep. “Ah, Watson, there you are. I was hoping to discuss what you need in town...”

Watson brushed by him without acknowledging the glove Holmes was offering him, and carefully set the glasses in the sink. 

“I see you have been in the shed,” said Holmes carefully. 

As far as deductions go, that was rather obvious. Watson gripped the sink edge hard and kept his attention on the dishes. His head pounded. He swallowed and tried to keep his voice even. “Three. If I didn’t return them, we would be drinking out of our hands.”

“We have tea cups, bowls, ladles... Besides, I am only responsible for two glasses.”

Watson blinked. He turned, took off his hat, and crossed his arms with his hat still in his hand. “Two? Surely you mean three. I just brought in three.”

“No, two. You brought out a glass when you were visiting me earlier this week. You left it because I had given you jars of honeycomb to bring inside.”

“I remember bringing in the jars but not taking out the glass.” 

Holmes smirked. Watson gripped the edge of his hat tighter as he felt his anger rise again. “No, none of that. I am only a few years older than you and my so-called failing memory doesn’t explain it. How can you be sure it wasn’t you?”

“I only bring out one type of glass.”

Watson opened his mouth as if to speak but chose to collapse against the sink instead. He turned his face up towards the ceiling and shut his eyes. Holmes shuffled towards him. 

In a soft voice, Holmes asked, “Have you eaten anything? There are eggs and toast.”

“I am a doctor. I can take care of myself,” snapped Watson.

“Then doctor, heal thy self,” said Holmes coolly. 

Watson heard the shushing of fabric, which he assumed was Holmes adjusting his waistcoat, and opened his eyes. Holmes was straightening his clothing and pressing his lips firmly together. Holmes’ eyes were fixed on Watson’s gaze before dropping and scanning the room. 

“Holmes...” Watson began. Holmes waved him off as he walked towards the chair which had his jacket draped over it.

”I will be in town,” Holmes said, picking up his jacket. His voice was cold and aloof. He did not look up at Watson. “As you have made it perfectly clear, you are a doctor and you can take care of yourself. Good day Doctor Watson.”

With the slam of the door, all fight left Watson. He walked to the table and tossed his hat unceremoniously onto it before slumping into a nearby chair. “Ah, bloody hell,” he said to no one. 

He considered eating the breakfast set before him, but his already queasy stomach from his over indulgence the night before had clenched into a knot further diminishing the desire to eat. Yet, he hated the idea of wasting food. He picked up his spoon and slowly scooped the congealed egg away from its shell. His stomach chose that moment to clench; instead, he tried a cold piece of toast. He begrudgingly ate it as his stomach complained with every bite. He washed the toast down with lukewarm tea. 

\-----

Watson made temporary peace with the windchime - the effort of destroying it was rather great for his current state. After shouting at the bird, it flew away only to return minutes later and continue its song. He took headache powder, because shouting hurt, and rested on the couch. He brought the recipes from Mrs Lloyd in the hopes of looking through them while he rested, but they lay on the floor next to the couch undisturbed. 

The morning grew late before he felt well enough to consider the unsolved mysteries already presented to him earlier in the morning in the morning. He went with the easier one – breakfast. Yesterday the housekeeper was in and she wouldn’t be today, thus Holmes made breakfast. 

Watson ran his hands down his face trying to rub away the prickling guilt about his treatment of Holmes before he left. He filed it away to thank Holmes for breakfast and make it up to him somehow. He crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his elbow. Next were the mysteries of the Three, no, Two Glasses and Holmes’ behaviour yesterday. 

Tea was exactly the thing needed for this sort of brain work and he had only drunk the lukewarm tea from breakfast. 

While the water boiled. He placed the two glasses on the table. He sat on the chair placed opposite of the focus of his inquiries, crossed his legs and arms, and stared down the two glasses. The glasses said nothing.

The glasses were turquoise blue with a gold inlay of a flower. The tops were rounded and smooth, while the middle was squared off with sharp corners. The bottom edge was equally confusing and was ruffled out away from the natural taper of the glass and sported a star burst cut on the bottom. It was as if the designer decided to use all the techniques they knew in one glass and squeezed in one more with the gold inlay. They were gaudy and heavy and not his style. Both Holmes and Watson preferred a simpler design. Perhaps Holmes preferred them for use outside because they were so garish? 

Steam shot from the kettle. Taking care as to not trigger the room to spin again, Watson slowly took it off and added the boiling water to the teapot.

As the tea steeped, Watson tried applying Holmes’ methods and observing. The glasses did nothing in protest to the intensity of gaze upon them. One glass was dustier than its companion. If he knew his Holmes, and he did, he was sure Holmes knew the exact rate of dust accumulation that occurred in his shed and if the colour of said accumulation changed with the seasons. The thought made Watson smile and again he felt a sharp stab of regret about this morning. He coughed and set his elbows on his knees and his fists under his chin. The least he could say was that one cup was taken out sometime before the other. Whether that was useful information or not was unknown.

Watson picked up a tea cup and the biscuit tin and poured himself some tea. He sighed and put away the thought of gleaning deeper meaning from the drinkware.

\-------

Tea had worked its wonders and by the late afternoon Watson’s headache was more manageable. He rested on the couch after tea and took another dose of headache powder. Beginning to feel the need to move, he glanced out of the window and noted the puffy clouds rolling in. Their brilliant white told him that they would not rain on him if he went outside but would provide intermittent shade. 

He had noticed the small weeds in the garden beds during his check this morning, much to his dismay. The weeds were starting to pop up quicker now that it was warming up. Watson took pride in his nearly weed-less garden, and knew he needed to remove them quickly. 

He gathered up the gloves he had brought in that morning and took time tying his shoes that had now dried from the morning dew. He put on his hat and went out. As he walked down the path, he remembered one of the large weeds from last year. It had been overlooked in a remote and forgotten corner of his garden and flourished. The weed would not move after several attempts at pulling it. Watson had pulled harder and it suddenly gave way, sending a shower of dirt in all directions. Watson had tipped; the force rolled him onto his back with an umph. He had mentally checked himself over for injuries, finding none, he had looked up at Holmes from the flat of his back.

Watson had smiled up at Holmes. Holmes smiled down at Watson and extended a hand. He accepted it. “Your garden is fighting back, my old boy.” 

“But it will not succeed,” Watson had said while he dusted off the soil from his knees and behind. He picked up the offending weed and began shaking off the dirt into the garden. “I will need to be more vigilant. The younger weeds are easier to pull and aren’t the source of so many problems.”

Arriving at one of the garden beds, Watson sighed away the memory. These small weeds could easily be addressed now before they became larger issues later.

\---- 

That evening, through a quiet dinner of bread, cold meats, and honeycomb, Watson’s mind kept circling back to Holmes and the glassware and why Holmes preferred these glasses. Before dinner, Holmes had come home and disappeared into his laboratory. Before doing so, he left a package on the table. Watson felt worn down from everything and wanted to talk to Holmes. He heard a chair scrape against the wood but still Holmes stayed upstairs.

He cleaned up after his simple dinner, leaving Holmes dinner in case he came down, before settling in to read. The book kept him interested, but he soon found that he was nodding off. He decided that it was late enough to go to bed and went upstairs.

“Holmes,” Watson said quietly. Holmes was hunched over his table and did not respond. “There is dinner downstairs if you would like it. I covered your plate with a cloth.” Holmes remained motionless. “Goodnight, Holmes. And, I’m sorry for this morning.”

Dressed and lying in the bed in what they referred to as Holmes’ room, Watson tried to fall asleep. He could not find a comfortable position and his earlier tiredness had left him. He lay on his back watching the shadows on the walls. He thought about weeds and gardening. Just as his mind began thinking once again about glassware, he heard Holmes walk down stairs, hopefully to eat dinner. The muffled sound of a chair scraping faintly across the floor followed by the clanging of dinner ware seeped through the floor boards. Holmes’ steps seemed to thunder when he came back up and Watson felt himself tense. Holmes might choose to sleep in the other bedroom, leaving him alone tonight. The door creaked open and Holmes came in. Watson slowly exhaled the breath he did know he was holding and tried to pretend he was asleep. Silently, Holmes changed and slipped into the bed and lay on his back. Their arms brushed against each other and Watson considered moving away to give Holmes more space. As if sensing his dilemma, Holmes’ hand sought out his and he laced their fingers together. Watson let out a shuttered breath and squeezed his hand back. He felt himself go heavy from exhaustion and let himself fall into a deep sleep.


	9. Watering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. pour or sprinkle water over (a plant or an area of ground), typically to encourage plant growth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to thesmallhobbit for the beta!

Watson woke with a start. His body immediately went into high alert. Had he heard something? Where was Holmes? On instinct, he reached over only to find himself alone. Had he only dreamed Holmes coming to bed with him last night?

A familiar voice cut through his confusion and fog. “I’m sorry, my boy, I did not mean to disturb you. I only shut the window as I was getting cold.”

Holmes was silhouetted against the window. Watson untangled himself from the bedding and went to Holmes. Holmes was looking out of the window perhaps at something or nothing at all; he could not decide at this angle. 

Watson snaked his arms around Holmes’ waist and moved them slowly over the warm, softened flesh of his belly. There are some things that are inevitable with age. Holmes laced his fingers with Watson. They were cool compared to Watson’s bed-warmed skin. He wondered how long Holmes had been awake for his fingers to get so cold. Watson pressed in close to share his warmth. He switched their positions to warm Holmes’ hand in the cocoon of warmth between his palm and Holmes’ middle. Satisfied with their new position, Watson peered over the white nightshirt clad shoulder. 

The moonlight illuminated the monotone landscape in shades of grey and even darker grey. The night seemed to amplify the crash of the Channel waters on the shore. He could barely make out the twit-twoo of an owl. Perhaps it was distant, but his hearing and the night was playing havoc with his ability to say anything with certainty.

It was Watson who broke the silence first. Even whispering, his voice felt loud and strange in the quiet of that moment. “Have you been awake long?”

Watson felt Holmes take a deep breath and exhale loudly. “No. I... no.”

They stayed there for some time, both lost in their own thoughts as they huddled close sharing warmth. Watson would not press and waited for Holmes to speak if he wished. The companionable silence stretched between them, and Watson was glad for the familiarity of it and that Holmes allowed himself to be warmed by his embrace. 

Holmes twisted slightly in his arms. “I have given your suggestions for the manuscript, the lion’s mane one, some thought.”

“I’m sorry. If I was out of place...”

Holmes squeezes his hand. “Nothing of the sort. I will need to do some extensive changes to add some of your suggestions and include Stackhurst.”

Watson blinked. “I am quite certain my suggestions did not include Stackhurst.”

“You promised to add him in one of your stories.”

“Never,” Watson said through a soft laugh. “I have no memory of that particular promise.”

“I would be impressed if you did - you were quite inebriated at the time. This was after a card game that not even I could deduce the rules. Loudly telling stories of our less famous and more embarrassing cases. Of the green stockings and-“

“Oh... no, say no more,” groaned Watson. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead into Holmes bony shoulder. His voice was muffled. “it is too early to remember that case or any other unfortunate ones I could have retold.”

“I don’t believe Mrs Hudson ever forgave you for the hole in her wall.”

“My fault!” Watson’s head snapped up. “Did I really tell that story?”

“You did. Completely with a wobbly re-enactment with a spoon standing in for the dagger.”

Watson groaned again and tried to change the subject - there were some memories best kept in the past. “I never did thank you for breakfast yesterday. That was nice of you.”

Holmes hummed. “You did imbibe quite a bit that night and I suspected you would be feeling it the next morning.”

They turned to watch the night sky outside their window. Watson asked in a quiet voice, “Have you only been thinking about the manuscript?”

“House warming gifts.”

The non-sequitur caused Watson to pause. “House warming gifts?” He said giving pause in between each word. As good as he was of following Holmes logic after decades of lodging together, there were moments where he was stumped, and this was one of them. “Is someone we know moving?”

Holmes turned to face him, and Watson dropped his arms. The moonlight illuminated Holmes’ mischievous smile that Watson had been privy to many times before. Holmes continued, “you’d think that after years of my particular influences and teaching, eccentric and unconventional as they may be-”

Watson snorted, “that is an understatement-“

“As I was saying.” Holmes cleared his throat and spoke with the same tone he used when describing the facts of a case. “That some of my deductive reasoning would have, as they say, rubbed off on you.”

Watson suppressed a giggle.

“Oh, none of that. Now,” Holmes playfully scolded before returned to the mock professorial tone he used before, “what have you observed about the glasses?”

Watson decided to play along and toyed with the fabric of Holmes nightgown. “That there are three, they accumulated dust outside, and they are gaudy.”

“Do you remember when we got them?”

“Not in the least - should I have?”

“The society that Mrs Lloyd belongs to made us baskets when we first arrived. House warming gifts is what they called it, or a chance to snoop on their new famous neighbours. The glasses were from Mrs Lloyd. At that time, she did not perfume her letters to you.”

Watson dropped the fabric and lifted his face to look at Holmes. “You use those glasses because Mrs Lloyd perfumed-“

“Well-“ Holmes tried to interject.

“You have been concerned over her from the beginning and have been taking it out on the glasses? Holmes, why would you ever be concerned over her?” Watson took a step back. 

Holmes shook his head. He took Watson’s hand and pulled him close. “Can I finish now?”

Watson stopped and then slowly nodded. 

“They were useful and sturdy. They even survived a couple of accidents.”

“But you broke one.”

“No matter how well made, glasses will eventually break when dropped repeatedly against rocks.”

“Of course. Continue.”

“I became accustomed to using them, as they are easy to distinguish from the others and you didn’t seem to mind them leaving the cottage. That’s it, my dear Watson, they are a habit.” He paused briefly. “Just as you retrieving them is your habit.”

Watson laughed. “Habits can be broken.”

Holmes smiled and Watson could only smile back. 

“Should I be jealous of your habitual use of our drinking ware?”

Holmes smirked and stepped closer, effectively trapping their hands in between their bodies. “I could show you one of my favourite habits.” He looked down at Watson’s lips and Watson felt a surge of warmth go through him. “That is, if you are interested.” Watson nodded, and Holmes leaned forward pressing their lips together. 

There was less talking after that until Watson remembered something he wanted to ask. “Holmes,” Watson tried to say but Holmes prevented it with another kiss. Watson persisted and pulled back a fraction leaving their foreheads together. “Wait, wait. What was the reason for your mood after the perfumed letter arrived? Were you truly not bothered by it?”

“I deduced the letter’s intent as soon as I smelled the perfume. And, no, that was not the only reason. I received a reply to my letter from the American beekeeper. The message was... not what I was expecting.”

“But you took the manuscript and left without a word.”

“I was lost in thought over the letter and wanted time to process it.” Holmes hand wandered to Watson’s side and began gathering material there. “Enough, please, we have other matters to attend to.” Goosebumps formed on Watson’s leg as it was exposed to the cool night air. 

—-

 _Unbreakable! Unkinkable! Best hose this side of the Atlantic!_ Claimed the advertisement. Watson adjusted a kink near the patched hole in his hose and walked back towards the house. He had sworn to himself that he would not purchase another one this early in the season after the first tear occurred, soaking his trouser leg and half his shirt in the process. It was designed to be the last hose he would ever need to buy, and last hose he would buy it would be, at least for this season. 

Watson turned the tap. The hose swelled and shuddered, yet the state of the patch was obscured by the grass. He slowly walked the length of the hose inspecting every inch for the presence of new tears as he made his way to the patch. That patch would hold, he told himself; he was good at keeping fluids where they were designed to be. 

Progress inspecting the hose stopped when the shrill ring from the postman’s bell sounded. Watson saw the uniformed man riding his bicycle towards the cottage. He started to leave his hose inspection duties to retrieve the post, but just then Holmes exited the cottage and greeted the man. 

Pleasantries and post exchanged, Holmes walked up to him holding multiple letters. He held out a letter to Watson. Before Watson could see the address, he smelled the perfume. 

“I believe you did not reply in an acceptable fashion to her previous invitation to tea?” Asked Holmes, still holding the letter and knowing perfectly well what the answer would be. 

Watson blinked and took the letter. He said mechanically, “I was distracted. Forgot to reply. Has it really been weeks since her previous invitation?” 

Holmes hummed and tucked the other letters in his waistcoat. “You will be replying yes, of course.”

Watson gaped and bristled. “Of course not! if you think -“

Holmes raised his hand. “Please, my dear Watson, I did not mean to offend. I know you to be most loyal and I would never ask you to leave me. No, I have a plan and one that might forever throw her off your scent. When you are done, I will explain it to you over tea.” Holmes turned and walked a short distance before saying, “You might want to consider reinforcing the patch.” 

Watson roughly stuffed the letter in his waistcoat and took up the hose, not aware of the force he was exerting on the new patch. The patch failed. The tear expanded. A faint spray of water escaped the pressure in the hose and started to wet Watson’s shirt sleeves. With a grumble, Watson tossed the hose down and marched back to the tap to turn off the water.

\-----

The first touch of the Channel waters to his toes caused Stackhurst to recoil from shock. It was cold, but what did he expect from his first swim of the year? He needed this distraction even if he was likely to catch his death from this swim. As usual for this time of year, there was the normal mountains of paperwork and grading student’s papers. After being inside for hours, he began wondering why he assigned essays in the first place when it was only creating more work for himself.

That was when he decided he needed a swim. It cleared his head and he could grade papers objectively and in a manner befit of an instructor.

He stepped in further and a frigid wave splashed up his leg raising a wave of goosebumps over his body. He inhaled sharply and waited for the initial pain from the frigid water to subside.

He should have swum yesterday, especially after attending Mrs Lloyd’s house with Dr Watson. It would have done him good to clear his head instead of having thoughts swirl until the small hours of the night. Stackhurst had been excited about the invitation, and to spend time with Mrs Lloyd, even if it was with the object of her pursuits. Well, the former object of her pursuits.

Dr Watson had acted strangely during that meeting. His normally careful dress was less so. He seemed more distracted than usual, often not hearing questions directly asked of him. He accidentally spilled tea down his outfit and over her perfectly embroidered table cloth. He grimaced after tasting her strawberry scones. Who could grimace at the perfection of her strawberry scones? They are, well, perfection and award winning and the best he’d ever tasted. That grimace had changed the mood to stiff over-politeness which continued until Dr Watson took his early leave. 

Just as well, for he had the most wonderful tea time with her after the doctor’s departure. He had sung the praises of her strawberry scones and she beamed. Her bright, inquisitive eyes never left his. Their conversation flowed easily, and they discovered that they had a lot in common. Mrs Lloyd, Dolores she had asked him to call her, said he looked like a man who knew how to take care of himself. He could get lost in those eyes.

He sighed and placed his hands on the thin bathing suit covering his stomach. He would need swim more if he had the opportunity for a steady diet of those scones. 

\------

Further down the shore from where Stackhurst was swimming, Holmes and Watson were sitting on a bench that was sheltered from the breeze by a bush. If you did not know the spot was there, it would have been easy to overlook.

Between then, they had their hands entwined together. Watson rubbed the backs of Holmes’ hands with his thumb.

“Holmes, do you trust me?”

“I think that goes without saying that I do.”

Watson produced a small packet of parchment paper and gave it to Holmes. He opened it and pulled out a red and white radish. The miniature radish that was thinner than his pinky finger.

Holmes sighed and slipped the radish back into the package and handed it back to Watson. Watson did not accept the package. “And you accuse me of being dramatic. I said that I did not want to eat a radish until the experiment ended.”

“You did, but there is something we did not consider at the beginning of this experiment. As the radish ages, the taste changes. The radish you are holding has been properly watered and tended.”

“Even with your continuing fight with the leaking hose?”

“I have watering cans and will power. Also, the weather has been cool. This radish will taste different from what it might taste like tomorrow, next week, or even when it is ready to harvest.”

“You planted successive crops to cover this angle.”

“I did, but this is different. The cultivation matters. All I’m trying to say is that I ate a similar treated radish this morning and it was different from the mature one I had in my salad.”

Holmes re-opened the package and took out one radish. He turned the vegetable in his fingers, inspecting it at every angle before putting it in his mouth. He chewed, stopped, and chewed again. Watson half expected the offending root to be spat upon the ground, instead he sat in shock as the root was swallowed. “I like this one.”

Watson blinked and waiting for ‘except’ that never came. “You what?”

“I like it.” Holmes bit into another one and chewed thoughtfully. “It is not the taste I remember.”

“Not the taste you remember? You have not had a radish in how long that you don’t even remember what it tastes like?”

“Some time ago.” Holmes smirked. “Old age does make recalling the exact time difficult.”

“Now you are willing to admit your age is effecting your memory. Where are you going?”

Holmes had stood and was beginning to walk up the path. “As you need time to recover from your shock, I will check on my bees.” He popped another radish in his mouth.


End file.
